Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Before I saw The
Sterile Cuckoo in 1969, I had only the vaguest impression of Liza Minnelli. I had a dim memory of her as this somewhat hyperactive, inauthentic personality who popped up occasionally on
her mother’s variety TV show, and another as an over-earnest Red Riding Hood in a 1965 musical TV
special titled The Dangerous Christmas of Little Red Riding Hood. Having missed her film debut in the 1967 Albert Finney vehicle Charlie Bubbles, The Sterile Cuckoo marked my first encounter with Liza Minnelli, the
actress, and, in the character of Pookie Adams, my first exposure to what eventually evolved into Liza
Minnelli, the screen persona.

Liza Minnelli as Mary Ann "Pookie" Adams

Wendell Burton as Jerry Payne

The Sterile Cuckoo,
the first film effort by late director Alan J. Pakula (Klute, Starting Over) is
a fairly straightforward, bittersweet tale of first love presented as a
touching, coming-of-age character study. Soft-spoken biology major Jerry Payne
(Wendell Burton) encounters bespectacled oddball Pookie Adams (Liza Minnelli)
as both are waiting for a bus to take them to their first semesters at
neighboring colleges. The extroverted but socially awkward Pookie, who either misinterprets Jerry's passive malleability as interest or willfully disregards what is more apt to be amused indifference, insists that the two have instantly bonded and share a mutual attraction ("We got along terrifically on the bus!" she asserts).
Pookie, an outcast who aggressively overcompensates and guards her lonely vulnerability behind the labeling of others as “creeps,”“weirdos,” or “bad eggs,” is clearly drawn to the nice, button-down sweetness of the biology major, but one senses that she's a type that habitually latches onto strangers. For his part, the overwhelmed Jerry doesn't so much warm to Pookie’s charms as succumbs to the force of her persistent will.

Pookie worms her way into yet another heart

Yet in that strange way in which a relationship is often forged from an individual of somewhat amorphous character being drawn/surrendering
to the superficially dominant character of another; the very dissimilar Pookie
and Jerry embark upon a swift but tenuous romance. Taking place over the course
of one school year, The Sterile Cuckoo
follows the couple’s evolution and eventual dissolution as Jerry begins to grow into himself just as Pookie’s love-starved neediness starts
to reveal itself to be part of larger, more deeply rooted emotional problems.

Tim McIntire plays Jerry's roommate Charles Schumacher (or Shoonover...the film can't seem to make up its mind), a typically macho, hard-drinkin' fratboy given to an excess of sexual braggadocio. On the surface. The reality of this ostensibly "popular" character's life underscore The Sterile Cuckoo's theme that all teens struggle to find their identities. Pookie's self-absorbed wallowing in her own problems blinds her to an awareness of the feelings of others.

As a 12-year-old kid enamored of too-mature films I scarcely
understood, The Sterile Cuckoo was one
of the few movies I saw during this period that didn't feel like a two-hour
excursion into the uncharted territory of mysterious adulthood. Although the
characters are supposed to be 18 or 19, the issues plaguing Pookie and Jerry (friendships,
identity, loneliness, peer group acceptance) were, for the most part, things to which I could
both relate and recognize within myself. I identified with Jerry’s timidity
and deliberate, watchful approach to others. Likewise, as a gay youth, I
empathized both with Pookie’s perception of herself as an outsider and her reject-them-before-they-reject-you, knee-jerk defense mechanisms.

The painful paradox of finding yourself snubbed by the very group you profess to have no interest in being a part of is brought to almost excruciating life by Minnelli in this scene at a campus hangout. Hoping to have found someone with whom she can share her outcast isolation, Pookie is unnerved to discover that Jerry, by all appearances a quiet loner, is actually rather socially poised and liked by others.

But what I think I responded to most was the film’s insight into the dynamics of a relationship between two loner personalities drawn together in their isolation. Both Pookie and Jerry are insecure, but each responds to their circumstances differently. Pookie’s insecurity causes her to alienate all others except the one person she selects to smother with all the love she has, all the while emotionally draining them with demands for all the love she needs. Jerry lacks confidence as well, but as his insecurity is neither fear-based nor self-defensive, he's capable of recognizing that most everyone is a little afraid to reach out to others, and that what matters is that one make a little effort.
Unlike the offensive message behind the beloved 1978 musical Grease, whose moral is to encourage teenage girls to change everything about themselves in order to gain peer acceptance, The Sterile Cuckoo is not a film about the need to conform... it's about the inevitability of growing up.

"Pookie, maybe they aren't all so bad. Maybe everybody's just a little cautious of everybody."

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT
THIS FILM

Always a sucker for movies about vulnerable characters (and
movies that make me cry), I fell in love with The Sterile Cuckoo and saw it about six times back in 1969. It sold
me on Liza Minnelli as a genuinely talented actress, and inspired me to read the
surprisingly different-in-tone John Nichols novel. For the longest time I harbored a memory of The Sterile Cuckoo as just a sad/funny look at first love, and perhaps that’s all it's intended to be. But seeing
the film today, in light of all we've come to learn about mental illness (coupled
with our culture’s obsession with medicating all idiosyncrasies out of the
human personality); I’m struck by how seriously disturbed Pookie seems to me now. That certainly wasn't the case when I was young. She starts out as some kind of early exemplar of the Manic Pixie Girl cliché, but
what with her self-delusions, pathological lying, death-obsession, mood swings, and
crippling persecution complex, it’s hard to shake the feeling that Pookie is considerably more than just a wounded misfit in search of someone to love her.

Death-fixated Pookie likes to hang out in cemeteries

PERFORMANCES

Liza Minnelli deservedly won an Oscar nomination for her intense and deeply
committed performance in The Sterile
Cuckoo. Cynics and the industry savvy might take issue and label such an
ostentatiously underdog role as Pookie Adams (significantly altered and made
more pathetic
/sympathetic than in the novel) to be just the sort of calculated Oscar-bait to
attract Academy attention. But given that a similar gambit didn't work for Shirley
MacLaine that same year for what many consider to be an equally manipulative and maudlin turn in Sweet Charity; I think it’s fair to say
that Minnelli put this one over in spite of Pakula’s and screenwriter Alvin
Sargent’s (Paper Moon, Ordinary People) determination to stack
the emotional deck so heavily in her favor.

The character of Pookie Adams was conceived for the screen as one far more tragic than depicted in the novel.

It’s popular to dismiss the less-showy work of
newcomer Wendell Burton in the reactive, relatively thankless role of Jerry
Payne, but I think his low-key naturalism and likability provide the perfect
contrast to the nervous hyperactivity of Minnelli’s character (it’s impossible to watch her
Pookie Adams and not think of Anne Hathaway's legendary eagerness to please). His character’s subtle growth is very well
played, and to Burton’s credit, he’s never wiped off the screen by Minnelli (no
easy feat, that). At the time of The Sterile Cuckoo's release, Burton appeared poised for stardom. But after next
appearing in an almost identical role as a soft-spoken prison inmate in Fortune & Men’s Eyes (1971) he
worked primarily in TV before retiring from acting in the late 1980s.

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

Earlier I mentioned how The Sterile Cuckoo marked my introduction to Liza Minnelli, the screen persona. By this I mean that for all intents and purposes, one can find the genesis of the entirety of Liza Minnelli's adapted screen persona in The Sterile Cuckoo’s Pookie Adams. Nowhere is this more obvious than in its similarities to her Oscar-winning role in Bob Fosse's Cabaret (1971). Fans of that film are apt to recognize in Pookie Adams a nascent version of Sally Bowles.Pookie & Sally: A Comparison

3. Both win over reluctant, passive men through the sheer force of their personalities.

4. Both suffer from neglectful fathers.
5. Each has a big emotional breakdown scene that virtually screams,
“Give that girl an Oscar!”

6. Both have pregnancy scares.

7. Both have gaydar issues. Pookie thinks (perhaps correctly) that Jerry’s roommate
is gay, while Sally fails to detect that her boyfriend and her lover are bisexual.

8. Both wind up scaring off their lovers.

Come-on: Would you like to peel a tomato?

Come-on: "Doesn't my body drive you wild with desire?"

The Sterile Cuckoo (top) and Cabaret (bottom)share scenes of Liza Minnelli as the sexual aggressor. Here she attempts to seduce lookalike males with her supine figure.

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

The Sterile Cuckoo is
one of those forgotten movies in need of rediscovery. It’s more character-based than story-driven, so it's not heavy on plot; Pookie’s character can prove more annoying than poignant to some; and if you
take a dislike to the film’s Oscar-nominated theme song “Come Saturday Morning,”
you’re likely to be sent screaming into the streets, for it comprises the
totality of the film’s soundtrack. But to me it’s a perfectly wonderful film of humor, sensitivity, and considerable emotional insight. Beautifully shot and an authentic-feeling record of the late '60s, The Sterile Cuckoo has standout performances throughout(Minnelli is at times phenomenal in this), and I think the conveyance of the brief romance is beautifully handled...both its beginning and its painful end. Definitely worth a look.
Oh, and as to the significance of the title? Nowhere to be found in the film (allegedly cut), but referenced in the novel as a poem Pookie writes about herself.

At the start of the film, we don't understand the silence between the two characters sitting on a bench waiting for the arrival of a bus. When this image is duplicated at the end, we have a better understanding of the pattern of Pookie's life and sense that this has been and will be a scenario played out again and again.

Mark, at Random Ramblings, Thoughts & Fiction and a few Internet friends have all shared with me tales of having had encounters with a real-life Pookie Adams, so I figured I should share my own.
My particular Pookie was a bit of an outcast, wore glasses, and was ragingly funny. She was keenly perceptive and cutting when it came to the shortcomings of others, yet oblivious to her own. She was a deeply loyal friend, but somewhat suffocating in that if you were her friend, you had to be only HER friend. There was no room for anybody else. She was happiest in having the two of us share all of our time together sitting apart from others and putting them down. In my own insecurity, this felt for a time like a kind of strength to me, too, but it wasn't long before I recognized what a self-defeating, one-way street this attitude was. We were an insulated, impregnable world of two, but it was a world of cowards. As much as I enjoyed her company, the ultimately toxic nature of her mean-spirited humor (it was so obvious that she was in pain and so afraid of others) drove us apart. I see in The Sterile Cuckoo and Liza Minnelli's excellent performance an exacting depiction of a certain kind of wounded personality. One I'm learning is not as unique as I'd once thought.

Friday, February 22, 2013

You pretty much know what you’re in for in this, the third screen
adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic
1925 novel, The Great Gatsby, when
the film begins with a series of loving, beautifully lit, perfectly framed, Architectural
Digest-worthy shots of property and objects. Instead of a haunting rumination on
romantic obsession as a means of recapturing the past, poetically framed by a bitter
indictment of materialism, the American Dream, and the
emotional recklessness of the rich; this is The
Great Gatsby as told from the perspective of nostalgia fetish.

The Great Gatsby suffers a bit from a confused point of view. When the camera lens is trained on Gatsby's beautiful objects, I suspect we're supposed to respond the hollow allure of materialism. Unfortunately, the images are so arrestingly beautiful that they invite audiences to ooh and ahh over their luster. In essence, to view the items from the acquisitive, money-enamored perspective of Daisy. A bit of a problem, given that she is one of the more superficial and morally corrupt characters in the film.

In this Jack Clayton directed (The Innocents, Room at the
Top) adaptation of an
overly-reverential screenplay by Francis Ford Coppola, the unrequited love affair between
Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan takes a back seat to the love affair the camera
has with all the 1920s Art Deco knickknacks, gimcracks, and gewgaws on display
throughout. This The Great Gatsby is
a fashionista’s orgy of breathtaking period costuming, a production designer’s
wet-dream of glittering Jazz Age opulence, and an antiquities museum curator’s
idea of a motion picture. Lovely to look at, yet emotionally arid, antiseptic,
and hermetically sealed.

Robert Redford as Jay Gatsby

Mia Farrow as Daisy Buchanan

Bruce Dern as Tom Buchanan

Sam Waterston as Nick Carraway

Karen Black as Myrtle Wilson

Lois Chiles as Jordan Baker

Miscast, misguided, and overproduced (the latter an odd thing
to say about a movie which revels in the excesses of the wealthy), that this
film ranks at all amongst my picks of memorable movies to write about for this
blog is largely due to The Great Gatsby
being one of my top, all-time favorite novels and this version being a
particularly faithful big screen adaptation. Painstakingly so, in fact. Indeed, the paradox of this nearly $7 million mounting of The Great Gatsby is how it is able to faithfully replicate so many intricate details of the novel (including sizable
chunks of dialog and virtually the entirely of the book's events and
characters) while still managing somehow to leave out both the book's passion and its pathos. It’s
like one of those lifelike celebrity waxworks at Madame Tussauds: identical in every superficial detail, but falling
short of being a true representation of life because it lacks a soul.

How this came to be can perhaps be traced to the film’s troubled
genesis, recounted in fascinating detail in Bruce Bahrenburg’s book, Filming The Great Gatsby (my own yellowed
and tattered copy, purchased in the heat of 1974’s studio-generated “Gatsby
Fever”). Originally conceived and developed as a wedding present vehicle for Ali MacGraw by
then-husband Robert Evans, The Great
Gatsby was derailed when MacGraw threw a gold-plated, 14-carat monkey wrench into the works by falling in love with her The Getaway co-star, Steve McQueen. While the hunt
went out for a new Daisy (in which several credible applicants like Faye
Dunaway and Candice Bergen were passed over for, in my opinion, the absolutely incredible choice of Mia Farrow), an ailing Truman Capote was fired as screenwriter and later sued the studio. Meanwhile the beautiful but inexpressive Lois Chiles was entrusted with the showy role of
Jordan Baker simply because she was the girlfriend of the cuckolded Robert Evans, and studio head Charles Bluhdorn figured the poor guy needed to catch a break.

Daisy & GatsbyMia Farrow (absolute perfection in Rosemary's Baby) is an actress I greatly admire, but for me she was totally out of her depth as Daisy Buchanan. Lacking the ability of say, Julie Christie, who can somehow play shallow and self-absorbed as interesting and sympathetic, Farrow's Daisy is mostly annoyingly fey and shrill. To be fair, F.Scott Fitzgerald's daughter, Frances, told People magazine at the time, "Mia Farrow looks like the Daisy my father had in mind." However, this was said during the filming. I've no idea what she thought after seeing the finished product.

Most movies have tortuous paths to completion, but The Great Gatsby is one of those films which gives the appearance of an inordinate amount of time and energy being spent on engineering a marketable property, not making a film. We still have the basic story of the millionaire with the shady past who attempts to reignite an old love affair with the socialite who threw him over years ago when he was poor, but that's almost all we have. Very little of what can be deemed effective is done with the novel's themes involving class, idealized romance, and morality.
One rarely gets the sense that anyone involved in the making of The Great Gatsby had even read the novel, much less understood any
of what Fitzgerald was trying to say
about the corrupting allure of the shiny side of American Dream. Had more than a few seconds of thought been afforded these concerns, surely someone would have noted the contradiction inherent in making an ostentatious, large-scale behemoth about the pernicious vulgarity
of the rich. I have a hunch that Paramount, in having made a fortune with Erich
Segal’s Love Story, merely saw Fitzgerald's book as a "great romance." I'm sure it was their hope to combine
the crowd-pleasing romanticism of Love
Story (1970) with the moneymaking, sentimentalized nostalgia of The Way We Were (1973), and never gave a
thought to much else.

Hype GripeThe amount of publicity surrounding the release of The Great Gatsby was near-suffocating and ultimately off-putting to the public. In 1974 Warner Bros. had Mame waiting in the wings, Paramount had Gatsby as well as Chinatown. The entire country was swept up in a nostalgia craze that even the decade's eventual disco-fever couldn't quell.

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT
THIS FILM

For all my complaining about what a prefab piece of
Hollywood machinery The Great Gatsby
turned out to be, I nevertheless get quite a kick out of the film. This in spite of my not finding the film to be particularly good, yet feeling a certain attachment to it due to a few sentimental, Gatsby-esque reasons of my own. The pleasure I derive from watching The Great Gatsby these days is chiefly nostalgic in nature, and directly related to the memories I have
of my sixteen-year-old self in 1974. Back then I was caught up in all things movie-related and
willfully swept up in the Gatsby hype. I bought all the magazines containing Gatsby articles, purchased the soundtrack
album, and dragged my family to see it several times. I did everything short of beg my mother to purchase
and serve our meals on the limited-edition The Great
Gatsby Corelle® dinnerware they sold at the local department store.

At that time, I hadn't yet read Fitzgerald’s novel, so I didn't have any expectations waiting to be dashed by seeing the film version. Nevertheless, in spite of my enthusiasm (or perhaps, because of it) when the film finally opened, I was underwhelmed. It was nothing like the moving romance I was
expecting, but it was a great deal like a film adaptation of a campy,
self-serious Harold Robbins novel. Then, as now, I find it a gorgeous film to
look at, and with each passing year I grow ever fonder of the old-fashioned movie
magic of large crowds of extras, big sets, period detail, all accomplished with
no CGI. But it's still a film whose every scene is haunted by the twin ghosts of what-could-have-been and unrealized-potential.

A Fine RomanceIf Gatsby and Daisy failed to sizzle for some audiences, their lack of heat is nothing compared to the non-romance of butch professional golfer, Jordan Baker and Tony Perkins-esque narrator Nick Carraway. According to IMDB trivia, original screenwriter Truman Capote wrote Nick as a homosexual and Jordan as a lesbian. Sounds about right to me.

My DVD of the film is a treasured guilty pleasure, but I can't help wishing it were otherwise. A consolation of sorts is that the joys I currently find in this
surprisingly joyless movie (Gatsby’s parties look well-populated and busy, but not the least bit
fun) are of the so-bad-it’s-good variety. I honestly could watch this film every day, yet I wouldn't recommend it to a soul. It's a very watchable, amiable kind of failure. One which yields new campy treasures and glaring misjudgments with each viewing.

A couple of examples:

Daisy’s hair. In her memoirs, Mia Farrow felt her
performance was “undermined” by the unflattering wig she was forced to wear,
claiming that for the duration, “(It) felt and looked like cotton candy.” Can’t
disagree with her there.

The clothes fetish. I know everyone in this movie is
supposed to be rich and can afford fancy garb, but this is one of those movies
where all the clothes have that distracting “never been worn” look. This also applies
to the never-lived-in sets and all those pristine automobiles on display. These
cars are so drooled over by the camera that when Myrtle meets her end at the fender
of Gatsby’s gorgeous yellow Rolls Royce, I'm tempted to think audiences were left in a moral quandary...were they upset by her death, or because she left such a big, ugly dent in that perfectly lovely automobile?

Author Tom Wolfe: "I'll never forgive the 1974 version of 'The Great Gatsby,' which was the Fitzgerald novel as reinterpreted by the garment industry. Throughout the picture Robert Redford wore white suits. They fitted so badly that every time he turned a corner there was an eighty-microsecond lag before they joined him."

PERFORMANCES

According to Roman Polanski, his dream casting of the role
of Guy Woodhouse in Rosemary’s Baby
would have been Robert Redford. Upon seeing the lack of chemistry displayed between
Mia Farrow and Robert Redford in The
Great Gatsby, I'm inclined to think he dodged a bullet there. Certainly the Clark
Gable of the 70’s, Robert Redford is a strikingly handsome man (I could write a sonnet
about the way the sun hits the blond fur on his upper thighs in his swimsuit scene); but he
is woefully stiff and colorless as Gatsby. It’s unimaginable that anyone this bland could harbor an obsessed fixation on anything other than Miracle Whip.

Most of the acting in The Great Gatsby falls into one of two categories: stiff or fussy. As garage owner George Wilson, actor Scott Wilson (so good in In Cold Blood) somehow manages to combine both as he's allowed to go through the entire film with the exact same watery-eyed, self-pitying expression you see here. The exasperation expressed by wife Myrtle (Karen Black) is pretty much on par with my own.

By way of contrast, we have my personal 70s fave, Karen Black, giving
what can most charitably be described as a ridiculous performance as 20s
hotbox, Myrtle Wilson. Karen Black won a Golden Globe for it, so perhaps it’s
just a matter of taste, but I don’t believe her Myrtle for a minute…which is
not the same thing as saying that I don’t love her performance. Acting her ass off in an almost alarmingly mannered fashion, Black is terrible
in that Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara way, and as such, she’s close to being the
only life the film has. I'm not sure whose idea it was to make Myrtle so hapless (over the course of the film, Black falls down a flight of stairs, shoves her hand through a plate window, and suffers a rap across the mouth), but hers is a physical, black comedy performance (pun intended) very faithful to the idiosyncratic skills of the actress. Tone and tempo of the rest of the film be damned.

Actress Brooke Adams, (l.) who would star in 1978's Invasion of the Body Snatchers and actor Edward Herrmann (r.) who played FDR in the 1982 musical, Annie show up in bit parts as party guests in The Great Gatsby.

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

There’s not a lot that Mia Farrow does right in The Great Gatsby, but there is one scene
where she so completely nails it that it almost makes her being so poorly cast
worthwhile. It’s the scene that takes place in the Buchanan household when everyone is sitting around the dinner table complaining about the heat (taking
place over the course of one summer, everybody sweats a lot in this movie…from the neck up,anyway. No one’s clothes are ever damp). In this scene Daisy forgets herself and speaks to Gatsby as
if the others aren't there. “Ah, you look so cool. You always look so cool,” she
says dreamily. Catching herself, she blushes and starts to rattle off a nonsense explanation
that hilariously trails off to nowhere. Farrow seriously knocks that little bit
of business out of the park. It’s the single most authentically character-based
acting she does in the film, and she’s great. In that one minute I can see what kind
of woman Daisy was perhaps supposed to be all along.

Very Pretty People Capable of Very Ugly Things

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Trusting a sensitive book like The
Great Gatsby to an industry comprised of individuals who wouldn't know a
moral imperative if it tapped them on the shoulder and asked if it could park
their Hummers for them, is a little like asking Donald Trump to act like a
human being for five minutes: the desire may be there, but the tools to pull
it off aren't.

This version of The
Great Gatsby is almost valueless as drama, but it's the perfect kind of screen
adaptation of a literary classic for showing in high school English Classes.
For while it is a faithful visual representation of the body of the text, at no
time does the film tip its hand toward revealing what the novel’s underlying
themes are, leaving that to the students to discuss amongst themselves.

Toned, tanned, & terrific, beefcake Redford provides a glimpse of what is so great about this particular Gatsby.

Because in my heart I consider The Great Gatsby to be a book of ideas and moral concepts poetically
dramatized, I have my doubts as to whether it’s the kind of book that will ever lend
itself to a satisfying screen adaptation. I must say I’m intrigued by the little I've seen of Baz Luhrmann’s forthcoming adaptation (although I'm not sure if I'm up for another one of Tobey Maguire's stare-a-thon roles). Its considerable
visual dazzle once again raises the issue of whether or not it is possible for a film to simultaneously condemn and chronicle extreme wealth. If
not, I guess we'll be left with another example of the past repeating itself...in 3-D, no less.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

The occasion of a recent TCM screening of the R-rated edit
of this forgotten minor masterpiece from the late '60s (one of several by
director Frank Perry yet to make it to DVD - Play It As It Lays, Diary of a Mad Housewife) inspired me to seek out the X-rated version I still remembered
so vividly from my youth. And as memories go, that’s really saying something, for
the youth I speak of is the summer of 1969 when I was 12 years old. In
1969, the newly instated motion picture rating system (G, M, R, and X) designated
the X rating for films with mature themes from which anyone under the age of 17
was prohibited. Contrary to what “adult” and “X-rated” has come to signify
today (porn), back in 1969 Hollywood harbored the idealistically naïve hope
that such a restrictive rating would both serve to protect local standards of
decency while ensuring filmmakers maximal artistic freedom and minimal
censorship interference.
Boy, just writing the above sentence made me all wistful and nostalgic for why the late '60s and '70s remains my favorite era in American film. The notion that mainstream Hollywood believed, even briefly, in the notion that there was such an animal as a mature adult audience is near unimaginable in today’s climate of ceaseless comic book franchises.

At left: The vague, rather arty newspaper ad for Last Summer containing it original X-rating. Right: The provocative wide-release one-sheet poster with the R-rating. (Newspaper image courtesy of Obscure One-Sheet).

Before America’s repressed and essentially hypocritical attitude
about all things sexual reared its head, a slew of intriguing X-rated films
were released during this time: The Damned, Midnight Cowboy, Last Tango in Paris, Last
Summer, A Clockwork Orange, Medium Cool; each giving the false impression that American movies had, after an eternity in Production Code mandated arrested development, at last grown up. Alas, it was
not to be. Soon the “X” rating was appropriated by the porn industry and the MPAA (the
industry rating board) embarked on a course of action—doling out harsh
ratings for minor displays of nudity or hints of sexuality, yet showing an absurd leniency when it came to acts
of extreme violence—that over the years rendered it, if not a laughingstock, then
certainly irrelevant.

Barbara Hershey as Sandy

Richard Thomas as Peter

Bruce Davison as Dan

Catherine Burns as Rhoda

The summer of 1969 saw the release of John Schlesinger’s Midnight Cowboy and Frank Perry’s Last Summer within months of each another. Everyone was talking about these two high-profile, controversial, X-rated features, and, thanks to the lax admittance policies of my local movie
theater, I was able to see both that summer, in spite of my tender, albeit jaded, years. Midnight Cowboy of course, went on to
great acclaim and a Best Picture Academy Award win, but Last Summer (in spite of having garnered a Best Supporting Actress
nod for newcomer Catherine Burns) seems to have been all but forgotten.

I’m not sure whether it was when the film went into wide release
in theaters or when it made it to home video, but eventually some of Last Summer’s X-rated intensity (centered
mostly on the film’s harrowing climax) was edited down to an R. If you weren't around in 1969 and you managed to catch this film at all, the R-rated cut is most
likely the only one you’re familiar with, and it’s this version that Turner
Classic Movies recently aired. Mind you, even this mildly truncated version of Last Summer is still pretty strong stuff,
its brief omissions only marginally softening the effect of the film’s intentionally
blunt sexuality and merciless depiction of a particularly base aspect of human
cruelty. Still, this wasn't the film I remembered and I felt cheated. Happily,
thanks to the trusty Internet, I was able to track down an unedited copy of Last Summer (as well as a copy of the long
out-of-print soundtrack album!) and I have to say, getting to see this film in
its entirety for the first time in 43 years has been every bit the emotionally wrenching
experience it was when I first saw it as a pre-teen movie theater scofflaw. (Taking into account changing times, even in its unedited form, Last Summer would only garner an R-rating today. A soft one, at that.)

In a scene emphasizing Sandy's sexual acquisitiveness and dominance over the boys' relative inexperience, she and Dan come across two lovers making out on a remote part of the beach. When it's discovered that the lovers are two men, Dan wants to leave but Sandy insist they stay and watch.

With its title a darkly ironic harkening back to the innocent,
sun-and-sand Gidget movies of the
sixties, or those sexually innocuous Frankie & Annette Beach Party romps, Last
Summer is perhaps one of the harshest eviscerations of adolescent social
dynamics I've ever seen. Neither a youth-pandering idealization of the Pepsi Generation
of the sort typified by late-60s films likeTheGraduateand Easy Rider, nor one
of those nostalgically sentimental coming-of-age films that would later flourish
in the '70s (The Summer of ’42, The Last Picture Show, American Graffiti); Last Summer is adolescence viewed through a doggedly nihilistic prism.

A trio of teens vacationing with their parents on Fire
Island strike up an intimate friendship when callow, future fratboy Dan (Davison), and sensitive
go-alonger Peter (Thomas) come upon sexually precocious brainiac,
Sandy (Hershey- “Well you asked me, so don’t think I’m boasting, but my IQ is
157.”) tending to a wounded seagull on the beach. Bonding over their shared
isolation, sexual restlessness, and an overweening, heretofore unplumbed disdain
for the feelings of others; the threesome find the dynamics of their tightly-knit
group challenged with the appearance of Rhoda, a bright but shy and awkward girl
who insinuates herself into the fold.

LonersOne of the film's few sympathetic characters, Rhoda is introduced committing a simple act of decency: she tries to get the trio to stop tormenting the seagull they're attempting to make into a pet.

Plump and pale to their tall and tawny; braces-wearing and happy to act her age to the trio’s fevered acceleration into
adulthood; it’s fairly obvious from the start that Rhoda’s emotional self-assurance
and killjoy, sober decency is a wrong mix for this crowd (who find in Rhoda
another “project” like the injured gull). Yet the point is keenly made by the film that in adolescence, the pain of loneliness can be so acute that even the belittling company of those who fail to see your value is sometimes preferable to being alone.

Poignancy is derived from the realization that all four teens come from broken or troubled homes and that together they could have faced their shared loneliness, alienation, and struggles for identity in ways enriching for them, both as friends and in ways individual. That summer could have been memorable for a lot of good reasons. But, being at its heart an existential parable on authenticity, dread, and the concept of decency as a choice one makes as readily as one can choose cruelty, Last Summer is a season made memorable for our protagonists in ways none of them could have foreseen and none will likely ever forget.

Rhoda and Peter's tentative friendship threatens the dynamic of the group

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT
THIS FILM

Like so many of my favorite films from this era: They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, Midnight Cowboy, Puzzle of a Downfall Child, even Rosemary's Baby;Last Summer is for me a brilliant example of how fascinating the results can be when mainstream movies and art films combine. What all these films have in common is their being accessible narratives that nevertheless convey the darker aspects of American disillusionment in the late '60s. So often I find movies today tend to feed audiences comforting images of themselves and set out to reinforce tissue-thin myths we harbor about everything from sexual politics to racism. Although I don't require it in every film I see, I must say I enjoy it when movies hold up a mirror to American culture that reveals the decay behind the gloss.

Last Summer fails to skirt the uncomfortable racist implications behind the privileged arrogance of the Aryan blond teens in their all-white enclaves who idiotically mimic the contrived slave dialect of Gone With the Wind, and, in this painful scene, make cruel, racist jokes at the expense of Anibal Gomez (Ernesto Gonzalez), a sweet and lonely Puerto Rican computer date set-up for the reluctant Rhoda.

Movies in the '60s/'70s were comfortable with revealing the darker shades of human nature. In fact, one of my strongest memories from this period in filmmaking was the distinct impression I was never going to see a movie with a happy ending again. I enjoyed seeing movies that made me think, made me feel...but at times it seemed as if every movie released during my teens ended in some devastating tragedy. Even the musicals were downers: Sweet Charity!

PERFORMANCES

relying perhaps on type-casting and using his young cast's relative acting inexperience to their benefit (Last Summer is the film debut of all but Barbara Hershey, who appeared in Doris Day's last film, With Six You Get Eggroll just the year before), Frank Perry gets natural and surprisingly complex performances out everyone, particularly Catherine Burns. Although lacking in the sort of easy, obvious camaraderie Peter Bogdanovich was able to achieve with his cast in The Last Picture Show(most apparent in an uncomfortably forced, "teens bonding" sequence that gives credence to Hershey's claim that despite the intimacy required of their roles, the cast didn't become close during the making of the film), each actor achieves a kind of heroic bravery in allowing themselves to be presented so honestly and unpleasantly.

New BloodBruce Davison found success starring in the 1971 thriller, Willard; Barbara Hershey went go on to make headlines throughout the 70s for being David Carradine's "old lady" and breast feeding their child on The Dick Cavett Show; and Richard Thomas became world famous as TV's John-Boy Walton. Ironically, it would be Cathy Burns, garnering the lion's share of the film's best reviews and Last Summer's sole Academy Award nod, who, after being reunited with Richard Thomas in 1971's Red Sky at Morning, disappeared into relative oblivion after years of TV appearances.

Much has been made of Burn's virtuoso monologue that most deservedly won her an Oscar nomination, and indeed, Burns does give the film's most shaded performance. But Barbara Hershey's assured and dynamic performance as the dreamgirl sociopath is one that has really stayed with me over the years. Carnal, conniving, straightforward, and deeply troubled, I think her characterization is so genuinely terrifying because she is just such a recognizable brand of emotional/intellectual bully. Long a favorite of mine and a definite object of a boyhood crush, I'm glad she's still around making films (even scarier as the ballet-mom in Black Swan!) and proving herself a talented and enduring actress.

Barbara Hershey (born Barbara Hertzstein) briefly changed her name to Barbara Seagull after she claimed the the spirit of a seagull accidentally killed during the making of Last Summer had entered her body. She stated that it was a moral choice born of feeling guilty about its death. It was also a very hippie-esque one for the actress who would later name her illegitimate son by David Carradine, "Free," and planted the child's afterbirth under an apricot tree in her back yard "...so he can eat the fruit nurtured by our own bodies." Coming to her senses, Hershey eventually dropped the Seagull, and her son now goes by very un-Flower Child but less giggle-prone name of Tom.

Perhaps the parallel symbolism is all too heavy-handed for some, but what I loved about this film in 1969 and what still stands up marvelously in 2013, are the parallels drawn between the film's early sequences involving the attempt to rehabilitate and then train the wounded seagull, and the introduction of the character of Rhoda into the group. The foreshadowing of the film's agonizing denouement is as clear-cut and unalterable as a self-fulfilling prophecy, but what grips me is what lies behind why it happens at all.
To see this film now is to understand what occurs inside any group or individual in power when threatened with the loss of that power. Whether it be the behavior of the GOP in the last election or the reluctance of certain states to grasp the inevitability of same-sex marriage; it all fit paints an ugly portrait of cowardice cloaked in entitled domination. To find all of this within a teenage coming-of-age film is just brilliant, and provides one more reason why this film deserves to be seen.

The casual distractions of an idle summer gradually escalate into experimentation with sex and drugs.

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

For years on the internet there have been reports of Last Summer finally getting a DVD release. Its reemergence on cable TV and a recent American Cinemateque screening of a long-lost, uncut 16mm print hint that perhaps one day soon this might very well be the case. I certainly hope so. Not only is it one of Frank Perry's best films and, as far as I'm concerned, one of the more important films of the era, but its themes are no less relevant today than they were in 1969. Sure, the antisocial behavior and so-called explicit dialogue of these teens looks positively quaint in the face of what goes on in the hyper-sexualized, accelerated world of adolescents today, but one of the points in Last Summer that still resonates with truth is the observation that play-acting at being grown-up is by no stretch of the imagination the same thing as genuine maturity. A smart and insightful character-driven motion picture, Last Summer is a reminder of how good movies can be when filmmakers care about something beyond being a hit at the boxoffice.

BONUS MATERIAL

I read Evan Hunter’s novel Last Summer not long after seeing the film and I’d highly recommend
it. Eleanor Perry’s screenplay is a faithful adaptation of the book, which is every
bit as disturbing as the film. The slight novel provides a bit more backstory
to the characters and is told in the form of a flashback memory recounted by an
emotionally shattered Peter to his psychiatrist. In 1973 Hunter wrote a sequel
to Last Summer titled Come Winter. I’d say that both novels
are unavailable and out of print, but is anything really out of print with eBay around?

Evan Hunter, famous for the novel Blackboard Jungle, is also
well known to Hitchcock fans as the screenwriter of The Birds. He was fired from his duties on Hitchcock’s next film, Marnie, for reasons far too ironic to
recount here. Those who are interested can find the info in the trivia section
of IMDB’s Marnie page.

The late director Frank Perry, largely forgotten today, was
one of the heavy hitters in the Golden Age of the New Hollywood. He is
responsible for two of the best films to come out of that prolific time: Last Summer and Diary of a Mad Housewife. Making it all the more incomprehensible
to me that this is the same Frank Perry who gave us the execrable laugh-fest, Monsignor (1982), and the exquisite
awfulness of Mommie Dearest. Talk about
your loss of innocence.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

I've a feeling an individual can easily gauge what his or her overall
response to this film is likely to be simply based upon how one reacts to its
title. If Puzzle of a Downfall Child strikes you as a potentially profound,
enigmatically poetic title conjuring up images of Paradise Lost and existential
disillusion, you’re likely to fall in love with this long-considered-lost
exemplar of European-influenced, '70s “personal statement” cinema. On the other
hand, if the title reeks of self-serious pretentiousness and needlessly arty ambiguity…well,
little about the film itself is likely to alter that perception.

Me, I fall a little into both camps. For one, I've always been crazy about the title. Perhaps that's because I was 13 years-old when the movie came out and the title sounded just gloomily cryptic enough to appeal to my adolescent taste for high-flown self-dramatization. (In an interview, director Jerry Schatzberg has stated that the title alludes to a plot element involving an abortion that was deleted in an early draft of the screenplay.) I adore Puzzle of a Downfall Child for its
introspective examination of the elusiveness of happiness and the human desire
to connect in the face of reality-distorting conceptions of image, sexuality,
self-worth, and success. In the telling, few of the film’s insights are
very acute, but there’s a psychological authenticity to the screenplay and
performances which significantly mitigate the sometimes arthouse excesses of the
film’s visual style.

Which leads to camp #2. As much as I love Puzzle of a
Downfall Child and believe it to be both a beautiful and moving film, I’m
the first to admit that at times it can feel like a parody of a '70s art film. The
debut effort of photographer turned-director Jerry Schatzberg, Puzzle of a
Downfall Child falls prey to the minor sin of over-determined significance. There’s
a kind of naïve foolhardiness to be found in acts of absolute sincerity, and if
Puzzle of a Downfall Child suffers from anything, it’s from a heartfelt conviction
it is saying something “important” about the human condition. To some, such ponderousness
can come off as pretentious, humorless, or just plain exasperating. But me, I’ll
take a self-serious film that tries to be about something over today’s cynical,
eye-on-the-boxoffice, market-research product any day.

Faye Dunaway as Lou Andreas Sand

Barry Primus as Aaron Reinhardt

Viveca Lindfors as Pauline Galba

Roy Scheider as Mark

Faye Dunaway plays Lou Andreas Sand (nee Emily Mercine), an emotionally fragile former high-fashion model who has retreated to a solitary beach house on Fire Island following a crippling nervous breakdown. Visited by long-time photographer friend and former lover Aaron Reinhardt (Barry Primus), Lou recounts her troubled life in a taped conversation Reinhardt hopes to fashion into a film. With her life revealed in flashbacks that come at us in stylized and realistic non-linear stretches devoid of obvious hints as to their veracity as memory, fantasy or both; Lou reveals herself to be the most unreliable of narrators. Yet the tone of these mental images, playing out like scrapbook pages torn from an album and reassembled, expose the truth of the woman, if not always the truth of the events themselves. It's a fascinating narrative path made all the more so due to Puzzle of a Downfall Child being a film contructed in much the same manner. That the movie creates for us a sense that we are watching just the sort of film Primus' character is likely to constrcut from his talks with Lous is just one more piece of Puzzle of a Downfall Child 's continually self-referential puzzle.

Director Jerry Schatzberg, who had worked for more than 20 years as a photographer for magazines like Vogue, Esquire, and McCall's, based Puzzle of a Downfall Child on taped interviews he conducted with one of his favorite subjects, 1950s supermodel Anne St. Marie. St.Marie, like her film counterpart, retired from modeling after suffering a nervous breakdown. To further the whole wormhole effect of this enterprise, Schatzberg, who was rumored to have had an affair with St. Marie (as does his screen doppelganger, photographer Aaron Reinhardt with Dunaway's Lou Andreas Sand) in real life photographed Dunaway for many fashion magazines, and for a time the two were engaged to be married. Their relationship had already dissolved before Puzzle of a Downfall Child went before the cameras.

"If one can't keep some friends somewhere, then something is really wrong."

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT
THIS FILM

I think perhaps my favorite thing about Puzzle of a Downfall Child is that it combines two of my favorite film
genres: the '70s trying-to-find-oneself character drama and the '40s
suffering-in-mink women’s weepie. How perfect is that? When I first saw this film, Faye Dunaway’s too-sensitive-for-this-world fashion model was
an oasis of estrogen ennui in the testosterone-leaden desert of male-centric '70s films
romanticizing male identity crises and masculine existential moments-of-reckoning. To my taste, there was a decided oversupply of movies featuring the likes of Jack Nicholson, George
Segal, Richard Benjamin, or Elliot Gould grappling with the meaning of life, while an uncomprehending female (usually a sweet-natured dumbbell, and almost
always played by Karen Black) stood around on the sidelines. Aside from the vastly
inferior (by comparison) Jacqueline Bisset drama, The Grasshopper (1969), Puzzle
of a Downfall Child was one of the few films from this era to grant a female
character an equivalent navel-gazing opportunity.

To update Easy Rider's famous tagline, Puzzle of a Downfall Child could have been subtitled: "A woman went looking for America and couldn't find it anywhere."

To its credit, Puzzle
of a Downfall Child tries to find the common thread of humanity in the privileged-class despair of Lou Andreas Sand. And as embodied by Dunaway and captured by Schatzberg’s loving
camera lens (actually cinematographer Alex Holender of Midnight Cowboy), Lou may never look less than exquisite (even when in
the throes of a foaming-at-the-mouth nervous breakdown), but her pain is
recognizable and real.

Have you ever seen an old detective movie or TV show and
marveled at the perversity of cops and reporters at a murder scene going on and
on about how beautiful or desirable a female corpse was? I can't count the number of films I've seen where men stand over a dead woman's body lamenting the "waste" of a beautiful woman and how particularly tragic it is that said woman, so pretty or sexy in life, is now dead. It’s like there’s this
overriding mentality that a woman’s looks and physical appeal matter even in
death. Or worse, that one can be too beautiful to die...as if the loss of life
is sad, but the tragedy is compounded if the corpse is attractive.

Beauty: Fetishism and Objectification

Puzzle of a Downfall
Child sensitively addresses the high value we, as a culture, place on beauty, and the
price enacted on those who fall prey to it. In placing this character drama in
the appearance-fixated world of fashion photography, Schatzberg and
screenwriter Carole Eastman take an insightful look at a woman whose entire existence
and sense of self-worth is tethered to her beauty. Whose need to please and always be
seen as desirable under the male gaze is both a desperate, deep-seated search
for approval and a profound denial of self. The film's difinitive narrative thread calls attention to the pervasiveness of male exploitation and the vulnerability/susceptability of the female form.

Distorted ImageTroubled Catholic School girl Emily Mercine attempts to lose herself by adopting a pretentious name (perhaps borrowed from Nietzschean psychoanalyst Lou Andreas Salome) and engaging in casual sex with father-figure strangers. Like a character out of Damon Runyon, Lou Andreas Sand speaks in a mannered style totally devoid of contractions, and compulsively re-imagines events of the past in order to protect her fragile image of herself.

PERFORMANCES

Faye Dunaway’s participation was instrumental in getting Puzzle of a Downfall Child to the screen, and her passion for the project is evident in every frame. And it’s a good thing too, because
to the best of my recollection there isn't a single scene in which she does not
appear. Mind you, I'm not complaining, for in much the manner that Liza Minnelli's is so good in Cabaret that she makes you forget
“Liza Minnelli: The Home Shopping Network Years”; Faye Dunaway so thoroughly blows me away in Puzzle of a Downfall Child that I'm reminded of everything her career promised before the whole Mommie Dearest / voicemail meltdown thing. One of my favorite but most problematic actresses (you have to have a taste for her mannerisms), Dunaway has every reason to be very proud of her work in this. After Bonnie & Clyde, Puzzle of a Downfall Child ranks as my all-time favorite Dunaway film. She is phenomenal in it.

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

I tell everyone, even if you don't have the patience for the entire film, just watch the first 15 minutes. The sequence chronicling Dunaway as a fledgling model navigating the battlefield of her first fashion shoot is cinema gold. Shot with an eye for detail only possible from knowing this world very well, Schatzberg peels back the illusions we hold in our America's Next Top Model preoccupation the fashion industry and reveals the dehumanizing reality. Sure it's satirical, sure it's depicted from the overwrought perspective of the heroine; but from the performances, the dialogue (tellingly, Lou's voiceover describes the men on the set all looking at her as if they were sex maniacs. The visuals reveal her to have been largely ignored), and the stylish cinematography, this sequence is a great example of MY kind of moviemaking.

Dunaway reacts (I'll say) to being required to share her close-up with a live falcon. This terrifying sequence recall actress Tippi Hedren's accounts of working with Hitchcock on The Birds.

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

One of the good things about viewing an old film (and at 43
years-old Puzzle of a Downfall Child definitely
qualifies) is that one gets to watch it
in an environment entirely different from that in which it was created. Puzzle of a Downfall Child bombed in part
because it came at a time when audiences were wearying of the glut of European-influenced,
tarnished American Dream films that filled theaters after the breakthrough
years of 1967. When viewed from the comic book / 3-D / blockbuster perspective
of today, the film looks nothing short of miraculous.

Throughout her modeling career, Lou Andrea Sand compiles a list of photographers she refuses to ever work with again due to their abusive behavior. Boldly written in red on this list is the name of the film's director, Jerry Schatzberg. In her memoir, Looking for Gatsby, Faye Dunaway explains that this was an improvisational impulse on her part born of a particularly difficult time the director gave her after actor Marcello Mastroianni (the man she left fiance Schatzberg for) visited her on the set. Schatzberg liked the touch and kept it in the film.

As a culture, we’re guilty of attributing great profundity to
the existential midlife traumas of male characters in films, while women undergoing
the same are dismissed as merely neurotic. (I don’t know where I read it, but
someone once observed that The Graduate
missed the boat in focusing on the petulant Benjamin Braddock when the film's most compelling story and most interesting character was Mrs. Robinson and her midlife dissatisfaction.) It’s difficult not to think this subtle double-standard
played into the critical response to Puzzle
of a Downfall Child, but as good as the film is (and I think it’s a really
excellent film) there’s no ignoring that it falls into the usual traps that
beset movies that ask us to feel sorry for the beautiful people.

Film is a storytelling medium and all manner of human
experience should be explored. But films like Puzzle of a Downfall Child seem to forget why movies exist and who
attends them. No matter how masterful
the film, it’s difficult to ask an audience to listen to a woman as breathtakingly
beautiful as Faye Dunaway complaining about how unhappy she is in her (perceived glamorous)
job as a fashion model, and how empty she finds her life (after amassing enough wealth to live in financially independent solitude in a spacious beach house). We all know that the rich and beautiful can suffer as much as the rest of us, but any film
that attempts to dramatize a shared humanity with people whose lives offer far more options than those of the average person has to walk a precarious tightrope. If the world is too glossy, the people too lacquered, it can actually end up glamorizing that which it's trying to vilify. Ultimately sending a message similar to
the one expressed by those cops in the old movies bemoaning the fact that certain people are just “Too beautiful to suffer, too lovely to die.”

The DVD of Puzzle of a
Downfall Child is currently only available in France (released Feb. 2012), but every year more and more obscure films are getting "made to order" releases, hopefully this will be one of them.

So, whether you take the film to your heart (as I did), or
wish to wallow in its camptastic splendor (Puzzle of a Downfall Child is an exquisite, sumptuous-looking film
that has a scene involving a toilet that is sure to send Mommie Dearest fans into
wild ecstatics), this artifact from the days when movies sought to do more than make Variety's Top Ten weekend boxoffice list, has a little of something for everybody.

No matter how you prefer your Dunaway, overdone and theatrical or touching and deeply affecting, Puzzle of a Downfall Child is a lost miracle of a film that is worth taking the time to discover (or rediscover).

"One only breaks oneself apart in order to put oneself back together again...better."

To view some of Jerry Schatzberg's magnificent photographs, visit his website HERE

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"Life is too short without dreaming, and dreams are what le cinema is for."

This blog gets its title from a lyric to a song from the 1982 Broadway Musical, "Nine" by Arthur Kopit and Maury Yeston. This blog explores my lifetime love affair with the movies and examines the specific films that are, truly, the stuff that dreams are made of.

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